An illustration that I wanted to make a long time ago, to denounce the violence of the repression of the French government against social movements. I was in Paris on May 1, as a street medic, and I saw things that I’m not supposed to see in a “democracy”.
I decided to do this illustration 5 days ago, when I saw the firefighters gassed, and shot with flashballs by the police during a peaceful march to improve their working conditions.
Sidekick didn’t sleep all night. When the morning sun broke through his window, the anticipation was painful. Any second, now, Hero would go downstairs to find Villain missing. And then what? Would he be able to claim innocence? Would it even matter? He would be in deep trouble, no matter what he did. He watched the minutes tick by on his alarm clock.
5 am. He got hungry, but didn’t dare to move out of his bed. If he just stayed here, under the blankets, maybe he could delay the inevitable a little longer.
6 am. He tried to remember how kind Hero had been last night. It was just like before Villain arrived. It would be difficult for a moment, but he was sure Hero would calm down eventually.
7 am. He was probably going to have a terrible headache from the serum. Sidekick winced at the poor timing.
When he heard Hero scream his name at 8 am, he was flooded with relief and a nauseating fear. There it was.
He curled up tighter under the blankets, shuddering in fright, as he heard Hero storm up the stairs. The bedroom door hit the wall, and he flinched.
“Where the fuck is he?” Hero yelled, still wearing his pyjama and dressing gown. His curls were unstyled, which only made him look more explosive with anger. Sidekick sat up and pretended to wipe sleep from his eyes, like he’d just been startled awake.
“Wh-Hero? What do you mean, where is who?”
Hero’s dark blue eyes were alight with fury. His mouth was a tight line, and he stomped over to where Sidekick sat.
“Don’t you dare play dumb with me,” he hissed. “I can smell the guilt on you, and this is your last chance before I really get angry. Where is he?”
Sidekick held up his hands, and pressed his back against the bedroom wall.
“Please, Hero, I don’t know what you’re talking about! I haven’t done anything, I swear!”
He had to at least try to insist on his innocence. But just like he feared, that only made Hero angrier.
The arena, blood on his hands, of all different colors, teeth bared, trying, begging, the other aliens to stop, he doesn’t want to hurt anyone, but they don’t understand or don’t believe him, and then they’re lunging and instinct takes over, and when he blinks, it’s to a puddle of pepto pink ichor and a mangled body in his hands.
…
The cell, he’s back in the cell, and they’re coming, and he wasn’t ready and Patton isn’t hiding and the door opens, and he lunges, biting, scratching, kicking, screaming, the stun batons sending lightning through his veins, spasming his muscles, and he was aware of Patton’s scream, as he’s dragged away, his pretty blood splattering across the floor, and he’s beaten, shocked, kicked, all the while hearing Patton’s anguish as his feathers were stripped from him all over again, only this time, when they throw Patton back in his cell, his eyes are empty and blank, his body broken and still, and there’s nothing left of the chirping little ampen, and there’s nothing left of himself, as he loses his mind, ripping and tearing through the wall, tearing everything in his path to shreds until a blaster goes off and shoots a hole clean through his chest.
…
He’s running. He’s on an alien planet, and he’s running, and he can hear them behind him, they’re catching up, as he tears through the brush and the trees, leading them away, away, away, from camp, and he staggers as a dart hits his neck, the world spinning on it’s axis as he goes down hard. He can feel the chains being shackled around him, the collar fastened onto his neck, and he can’t even breathe, as electricity burns his skin, from the collar, sends him into unconsciousness, and when he wakes, he’s back in the cell. And the nightmare restarts.
…
“no…” He’s walking home, it’s late, the streetlights on, as he slinks through the shortcut through the park. He hates it, but it’s the fastest way home, and he’s never had any trouble, though he’s heard stories of people getting jumped.
“No…” He winces, at a sharp pain in his neck, for a moment thinking he’d been stung by a bee or a wasp, but when he reaches to feel, a small dart comes away in his hand. He stares at it, befuddled, before he feels another sting, stumbling against a tree as the world starts to tilt, trying to stay upright. Cloaked figures, shrouded figures, language he doesn’t know, and he tried to call out for help, tried to get away, but another wash of dizziness stole his breath, and he fainted.
When he woke up, he was on the ship, in the cell.
“NO!” He jolted upright, pulse racing, breath caught in his throat, the cell, the ship, he was on the ship, needle, needle in his arm, what were they taking this time? What else could they take, they were going to sell him for parts, maybe this was finally to off him for the scientists, he felt dizzy and lightheaded, weak, disoriented, maybe the tranq patch had worn off early, maybe he had a chance to get away, maybe-
A hand, a scaled hand came into view, and he hissed, scrambling backwards, falling off the edge of the furniture he was on. One second it was the sterile room, the iron bed, the suited figures, then it was a couch, smooth walls, soft light. His vision flicked between the two and he couldn’t figure out which was the truth and which was the lie, the suited figures turning towards him, batons out, crackling with energy, the scaled figure trying to reach out, trying to say something, but he couldn’t hear, he couldn’t and it burned, and he was dying, he was sure this is what dying felt like, as he scrambled further back, further away, hissing again as the tug pulled the needle out of his arm, pressing his hoodie sleeve against it to stop the bleeding, but the red, red, red, brought him right back, and it was everywhere, and there was too much, and it wasn’t all his, the bodies scattered across the floor, the colors blending like some macabre watercolor painting, swirling and blending and mixing and-
Touch. Touch against his shoulder. He’d curled into a ball, hands over his ears, forehead touching the floor, making himself as small as possible, trying to hide, but the noise was everywhere and they’d found him and he was going to die, going to be sold off for parts and he was so stupid-
Then the touch moved, a small, so small, hand slipping under his chin, gently tilting his head up, feathers tickling his skin, as he met those big, doe eyes. Feathers. Blue. Antennae, moth like. Fluffy. Safe.
Safe?
“Breathe, Virgil. Can you do that? In… out…” the words sounded so far away, and not quite in sync with the mouth movements, but he tried to follow them, tried to understand, tried to copy his movements. “good, kiddo. You’re doing good. Do you know who I am?” The feathery being asked, and his mind stalled. It must have shown on his face, because the being’s dropped, expression sad, and he hated that look on Patton’s face-
“Patton!” He rasped, voice barely a whisper, throat dry and sore, not helped from the hyperventilating he’d just been doing, from the panic attack. “Patton…” his eyes welled up, and he opened his arms, Patton flying into them without a second thought, hugging him as wide as he could around his chest, Virgil careful as he held him, letting his face rest against his soft feathers, mumbling an apology about getting them wet, met with Patton’s relieved little choked laugh.
He was shaking, he couldn’t stop shaking, the room still flickering, time and space folding in on itself, and it was making him dizzy.
Then Patton started doing the chirp, coo, pattern, vibrating against his chest, grounding him as he struggled to get his breathing under control, to force his mind to the present, but it wouldn’t stop slipping.
“s-sorry… I… I’m so-rry…”
“Shhh, you’re ok, kiddo, it’s ok.” He just shook his head, chest constricting, choking on the air, it burned in his lungs and made him want to scream, just to relieve some of the pressure, but there wasn’t enough air.
“virgil. Can you tell me, five things you can see? Take your time.” Logan, crouched down a fair distance away, to give him space.
“Y-you… patton… R-roman… the… the couch and the… the… n-needle" his breath caught again, his panic flaring, eating him up.
“Alright, good, stay with me, Virgil. Four things you can feel.”
“Pa-tton. My hoodie… the fl-floor. B-andages?” he asked, realizing his arms were carefully wrapped in them.
“you hurt yourself. Nothing serious, it’s alright. Three things you can hear.” He managed a deep breath in, forcing air in and out to answer.
“Chirp/coo.” He said, smiling slightly at Patton’s added little trill. “my h-eart, my voice.” He answered, focusing on the feeling of his hands against his hoodie, Patton’s warmth against him.
“Excellent. Two things you can smell?”
“Metal… myself" he wrinkled his nose slightly, smelling his own sweat.
“Last one, one thing you can taste.” Logan’s steady voice, and he thought for a moment.
“Copper.” He answered, looking up, finally, meeting Logan’s eyes for a brief moment, before his gaze flicked to Roman, who stood frozen by the couch, scales half raised in alarm, but also… worry?
“Virgil. How are you feeling?” Logan asked, snapping him back to attention, realizing he’d started to drift.
“um. Sore. Achy. Tired.” He answered, head thumping back against the wall, hissing as it hurt more than expected.
“I was going to warn you about that. We found you fallen over, unconscious on the bathroom floor, bleeding from your head. You’ve been severely ill, and mostly fitfully unconscious, for nearly seven days.” Logan explained.
“Why didn’t you tell us you were so sick!?” Patton scolded, though his voice was gentle.
“i… I didn’t want to bother you. I’ve been sick before. It’s… its fine.”
“no, it isn’t. Virgil. You are severely underweight and malnourished and sleep deprived, all factors that compromise your immune system making it more difficult to fight off disease and you very nearly died because you seemingly cannot comprehend that you are an important member of this crew and we will gladly help if you just ask for it!” He flinched at Logan shouting, his hands clenched into fists. He’d never heard Logan raise his voice, didn’t even know he could, but his mind snagged on what Logan had just said, and he shook his head.
“I… but I’m not. Important. You’re…a family. I’m just a tag along, because you were basically guilted into taking me with. You don’t… want me, here, and that’s fine, I wouldn’t want me here either, so the least I can do is take up the least space and use the least stuff and make myself as little of a nuisance as possible because then maybe I’ll get to stay longer before you get sick of me and kick me off.” Usually he wouldn’t be this candid, but he was tired, and he felt floaty and not all there, his normal anxiety not holding him back.
“Virgil… that’s not true.” Roman added, Virgil’s bitter laugh echoing harshly through the space.
“Sure it isn’t. You’ve made it clear, what you think of me. And you know what? I’m terrified, constantly, that you might be right. Sooner or later I’m going to hurt someone. It’s… it’s the only thing I’m good at, hurting people. Sometimes I think I should just bail, just leave a note and run, before I hurt anyone. Before I ruin it all. Before I ruin this… this amazing little family, you guys have.”
His eyes slipped closed, against his will, exhaustion weighing him down, settling into his bones from the panic attacks. “I w-want it so badly, it h-urts sometimes, but I can’t… I know I can’t have it. Be part of it. Know I’ll just… just be in the way.” He mumbled, not even sure if he was speaking aloud, anymore.
“Virg… we’ll talk about this later, ok? Just… can you make it back to the couch? You need more sleep.” Patton asked, moving off his chest. He nodded, managing to peel his eyes open, stumble to his feet, collapsing face down on the couch before blacking out as soon as his head hit the cushions.
…
“Well. His fever’s broken. There’s no point using these, any further.” Logan, trying to keep his voice steady as he packed up the IV line and supplies, considering hurling the needle out the airlock, just to spite the universe for forcing him to use it.
“I… I need to go. Think. About… things…” Roman poorly explained, darting from the room, as Patton sighed, feathers fluffing and resettling, worried gaze flicking between the doorway Roman had vanished down, Logan storing the medical supplies, and Virgil, face down on the couch. His forehead was a lot cooler, now, and his breathing finally seemed to be normal, deep, steady breaths. His eyes weren’t twitching in his sleep either, a good sign, Patton had learned early on that eye twitches meant bad dreams, nightmares. That was when he would curl up around Virgil’s head and churr softly, a low, rumbling vibration in his chest, that he used to soothe kits, but it also seemed to do the trick on the human. Most of the ampen soothing methods did, which he would have once considered odd, since they relied on empathy to work. But if anything, Virgil had too much empathy, his words playing back in Patton’s mind.
“He thinks we don’t care. We don’t… don’t consider him family, why would he… after everything, still think that?” Patton asked softly, looking up at Logan’s sigh.
“He’s been hurt, Patton. Deeply, psychologically, hurt. He’s so used to being in fight or flight mode, that is all his body knows how to do. His body, his mind, it doesn’t understand, can’t comprehend, safety. And after… after what he went through, how they demeaned him and treated him like a wild animal, like a… a specimen, it’s no wonder that he struggles to comprehend his own self worth, lacks any sense of self esteem or importance. He had to fight every day just to survive, just to keep you safe, and though I am thankful for it, it likely has contributed to his fear of himself. He knows how easily he could hurt any one of us.”
“He won’t though! He’d rather tear himself apart than hurt any of us.” Patton protested.
“I know, Patton. But he clearly doesn’t. He doesn’t take care of himself, he doesn’t trust himself, Patton, and until he starts doing that, understanding that he is wanted and loved and safe, I’m afraid he won’t take care of himself.”
“Then we’ll make sure he does. I will physically fight him.” Patton muttered, determination clear in every bristling feather, and Logan chuckled slightly, shaking his head.
“I would enjoy watching you take down a human, Patton, especially since Virgil would let you, but violence is not going to help in this situation.”
“Still. If he won’t take care of himself, I’m going to make him take care of himself.” He ruffled Patton’s head as he passed the couch, barely containing his smile at the small squeak the motion illicited, stopping at a small tug of his hand.
“Lo? Thank you. For getting him through.” He softened, looking back at Patton, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.
“Of course, Patton. Get some more sleep, now that he’s safe, won’t you?” Patton nodded, drawing away and circling a couple times before settling down curled around Virgil’s head, careful to keep a layer of blanket between them, so he wouldn’t accidentally siphon off energy in his sleep. Virgil needed all of it he could get.
Warning for some disturbing imagery/body horror this chapter. Virgil’s having nightmares.
…
Fear.
Pounding, aching fear.
Shadowy figures surrounded him, discussing him in words he could almost hear, hushed voices he could almost understand, and it grated at him, it hurt his ears. He tried to cover them, but found he couldn’t move, not a muscle, his eyes were open but he couldn’t even blink, his fingers wouldn’t even twitch, and he could feel his heart hammering in his chest, but despite his panic his breathing remained steady and even. The shadows moved closer, their whispers growing louder, echoing in his head, screaming tempests against his ear drums, and he wanted it to stop, he needed it to stop, but it just grew louder, and louder, and then it was the suited beings again, holding a scalpel, and he screamed, as his chest was sliced open, the flesh peeled away to reveal the organs beneath, his heart visible through the blood leaking from him, and he realized though he was screaming in his mind, he wasn’t making any sound, his vocal chords as paralyzed as the rest of him, and he couldn’t look away, as they started ripping out his insides, tearing him apart, the pain splintering through his being, blacking out his vision, and he tried, he tried desperately to writhe and claw and fight his way free, but couldn’t even lift his head, and he was aware of them adding new parts, shoving metal and wires and circuit boards into him, the pop and crackle of electricity against his skin shocking him, sending him into spasms that somehow defied whatever drug they’d given him, back arching at the intense, radiating heat flowing up his spine, and he finally did break free, break out of whatever drug they’d used, a keening, desperate wail shoving past his lips as he shoved himself off the table, as he snarled and clawed and bit and slashed, anything, everything, to get free, until he’d fought off the beings, his breathing ragged and uneven as he looked at the monster they’d made him, all mechanical parts and twisted limbs, broken bones and spasming muscle.
“Virgil?” Suddenly a shadow Logan was there, looking down at him, head tilted and eyes empty, hands strangely still, assessing him like the specimen he was and he shuddered, twitching uncontrollably.
“No. That isn’t Virgil.” Patton, voice hollow, and he screamed again, because his feathers were torn from his body, bent and broken nibs trickling blood down his wings, though he didn’t seem to care. “Virgil wouldn’t do this to me. And he did.” He shook his head, trying to deny it, but memories rushed back, his hands, moving against his will, the metal twisting around his bones, jerking him around like a marionette, Patton, begging, pleading, but he couldn’t stop, the single thought in his mind echoing destroy, destroy, destroy. His hands, ripping handfuls of feathers, feathers flying around the room, getting stuck in his grinning teeth, his manic laugh, his twisted soul.
“No… nonononono…” He curled tight on the ground, ignoring the fire racing through him, the intense, burning, heat, trying to make sense of this, of anything, noticing for the first time his hands were stained red, seeing Patton’s agonized face in his head, his hands on his throat, pressing down, down down-
“Virgil!” Roman’s voice rocked his world, and suddenly his eyes snapped open, hissing at the sudden brightness, too confused to understand anything, vision blurry, from tears, he realized, his breathing stuttering in and out, barely enough to keep from passing out, his throat tight, barely a pinhole of space for air to wheeze in and out of, his chest felt so tight, so constricted, and there wasn’t enough air, and he was hot, why was he so hot, the wires, the wires twisting through his veins, no, he had to get them out, they would make him hurt them, hurt Patton, he couldn’t hurt Patton!
He started scratching at himself, clawing at himself frantically, uncaring of the wetness slipping down his face, he had to stop it, he couldn’t-
Bloody feathers, crushed neck, broken wings, shattered body, he couldn’t-
Hands. Hands on him. He hissed, growled, tried to shove them away, but he was weak, so weak, he couldn’t do anything, couldn’t get away, and they were stopping him, and he was going to hurt everyone, he had to let go, he had to stop himself, he was just a monster, just a toy, just a broken sack of bits and pieces that didn’t even fit together right anymore, why couldn’t they just let him stop?
“please. Please, I can’t, I can’t, I won’t, i… i…” He doubled over, curled into a ball, shaking so hard his teeth were chattering, feeling as if he was shattering into a thousand pieces, broken and stomped on and wrecked.
“kiddo. I need you to breath.” He flinched back, away from Patton, eyes wide with fear, shaking his head frantically, as he scooted away, the grip on his hands letting him go.
“n-no… no! I’ll h-hurt y-y-you they’ll m-make me h-h-hurt-“ he broke off, running out of air, all of it dedicated to keeping the spots in his vision from growing larger, from taking over and plunging him into black.
“virgil. You have never, never ever, hurt me. And they can’t hurt us, anymore. Do you remember that? We’re safe now, remember? You broke us out of there, and kept us safe. You’re safe, Virgil. We’re safe. We’re ok. We’re ok.” Patton repeated softly, using the gentle chirp of his native tongue, ruffling encouragingly when Virgil finally looked up at him, struggling for a few moments, before tentatively chirping it back.
“We’re… we’re… ok.” He echoed slowly, tongue thick in his mouth, head pounding, it hurt to think, it hurt to do anything, but he forced his mind to remember, to remember what he was missing, flashes of a slim, multi armed figure, of a bulky, scaled one, of a… a ship, and he managed a slightly larger, shaky breath.
“M-Mindscape?” He managed, and Patton nodded, eyes soft with worry.
“That’s right, kiddo. You got sick, do you remember that?” He remembered feeling not great, but that was normal. He remembered being dizzy, but that was all. He shook his head, feeling confused again, feeling slow and tired and hazy.
“That’s ok, Virgil. I just wanna help, ok? Will you let me do that?” Patton asked, taking a small step closer. “Will you let me help?” His gaze flicked to the others in the room, pulling at a dull memory, at familiarity, he knew them, knew them and they didn’t spark… fear. Not quite. But the scaled one’s gaze was sharp and angry, and the crystal one’s gaze was sharp and piercing, and both sent unease tingling down his spine. But Patton was asking, and he trusted Patton, and if Patton trusted them, then they couldn’t be bad.
“O-o-Ok.” He managed, letting out a soft sigh when Patton closed the distance between them, resting a hand on his leg, and instantly, the fight and stress drained out of him, eyes fluttering shut.
“You’re gonna be ok, kiddo. I promise.” Then nothing.
…
“He’s hotter, Lo.” Patton said, voice shaking, as he felt Virgil’s forehead. Sweat coated his skin, and he was panting for breath, shaking, obviously in pain, not just from the lines of red up and down his arms, where he’d started clawing at himself, before Roman stopped him. “he’s getting worse.“
“We need to get him to drink. He’s severely dehydrated. I… hate to suggest this, but IVs may be the best option here. I know, it will cause added emotional strain, but his body does not have the strength or resources right now to fight off this illness. And I’d rather have him be upset or afraid than… than dead.” His words caused Patton to draw in his feathers, shrinking to nearly half his normal size, and he buried his face against Virgil’s side. Roman’s scales shifted, scraping against each other as they flattened, conflicting emotions racing through him.
He didn’t like Virgil. Didn’t trust him, wouldn’t have him here, if it had been up to him, but the thought of him… dying, still sent a spike of unease through him, one he could pretend was just for Patton, who was so attached to Virgil.
“ok. If it’s the only way, ok.”
He disinfected and bandaged Virgil’s arms first, before letting Roman shift him back onto the couch, fetching the medical supplies and hooking up the bags. Finally, he was standing over Virgil with the IV line in hand. All he had to do was insert it. He found himself incredibly resistant, now, to the idea, now that he actually was doing this, mind flashing to the moments he’d seen in the vidi, the pain and agony that had accompanied nearly every experience with a needle, but this was different. This was to help.
So he swiftly located the vein on the human’s wrist, slipping the needle in and securing it with gauze and tape, relieved when Virgil did no more than moan slightly, rolling onto his side and curling into a ball. He doubted the reaction would be so placid when he actually woke up to find a needle in his arm, but that was a future worry.
“Alright. That should help hydrate him, as well as give him some of the basic nutrients he is sorely lacking in, as well as some very moderate medicines. I doubt anything we have would do him any harm, but I don’t want to take chances and accidentally make things worse. Patton… you need to sleep.” He added, looking at the disheveled ampen, who shook his head.
“No, no, no! I have to stay! What if he wakes up?”
“He won’t for a few hours, at the very least, which is long enough for you to get some sleep. You haven’t slept since we found him.”
“Well neither have you! You’ve been pacing yourself silly!” He sighed, shoulders slumping.
“Alright. You’re right. If Roman stays on watch and promises to get us if anything changes, will you come rest with me?” he asked, knowing Patton wouldn’t turn down that offer, not with how rarely he was willing to offer tactile comfort, but they could both use some, right now.
“Ro? I know you don’t like him, but-”
“I’ll take care of him. I promise, Patton.” Roman swore, kneeling down so Patton could hug him, smiling as he butted against the underside of his chin, before stepping back, chirping an ampen thanks, hesitantly following Logan down the hall and into his room, Roman hearing the door slide shut.
He let out a low breath, scales flattening as he tried to calm himself, staring down at Virgil’s unconscious form.
“I don’t know what to make of you. I will never say this out loud again, but you terrify me. And I will not lose another family, to humans. But… every time you panic or lose control or lash out, it’s always at yourself. It’s always to protect Patton. You always choose to harm yourself over any of us, but you’re still a human, a death worlder, a dangerous, violent, creature.” He said, though it sounded much less convincing now, that it usually did in his arguments with Logan or his silent fuming.
Virgil moved slightly, his breath hitching, and his face creased, as if sensing Roman’s displeasure.
“no… please… m-mom…” Virgil mumbled, trying to reach out to something that wasn’t there, something only in his mind, and after a moment, Roman realized Virgil was crying, curling tighter.
He’d known Virgil had been stolen off his planet, but he’d never thought about the implications of it. He hadn’t considered that Virgil had clan, would have a mother or a father, that he’d lost everything, to aliens, without even having a chance to fight to keep it.
Roman knew how it felt, to lose everything, in the blink of an eye.
“and then you go and say something like that.” He sighed, shifting into the chair left beside the couch, hesitantly reaching out to brush back the human’s hair, mimicking the motion he’d seen Patton do countless times, to soothe or relax the human, surprised as Virgil instantly settled, a shaky breath escaping him before his body seemed to go lax once more, leaning into his touch.
“this doesn’t mean I like you. It’s only because I promised Patton.” He grumbled, not moving away, despite himself.
Taking the bullet out does nothing to help the person, and if your characters are in the field instead of a hospital, may actually cause more harm than good.
Imagine for a moment that you (for reasons unknown to all) decided to turn your sink on wide open, pick up a handgun, and shoot the pipes under your sink.
Maybe it hit the drain pipe, which would be bad, since all the water coming through the faucet is now dribbling out all over the floor. But even worse would be if it hit the water intake pipe, right? In that case, water under high pressure would be spraying everywhere!
Two bad options if you for some reason shoot your sink:
The vascular system of the human body is essentially one big set of pipes. The drain pipe? Those would be veins—under low pressure, but still very bad to leak from. The water intake pipe? Those would be the arteries—under high pressure and VERY dangerous to puncture.
But back to the sink example. Say you shot the pipes and hit the drain pipe (vein). Now there’s water pouring out onto the floor. Your roommate says “Quick! Wrap your hand around the pipe to hold the water in!” (“Put pressure on the wound!”) And you do! Water is still slipping out from under your hand, but it’s leaking a lot less than before! Right now, you COULD find some duct tape (bandages) and secure the pipe further so you don’t have to keep holding it.
Instead, however, you say to your roommate: “Hold on! I’ve got to find the bullet!” You let go of the pipe (stop putting pressure on the wound) to dig around in the cabinet (body) for the bullet. Seconds, maybe even minutes pass, and that pipe is freely gushing out water the whole time.
Finally, you find it! You pry the bullet out of the wood, hold it up to your roommate, and drop it in a little metal dish with a ‘clink’.
“Job well done,” you tell yourself. “We’re out of the woods now.”
Except that, you know, the pipe is still damaged and gushing water out onto the floor, and the bullet wasn’t actually doing anything harmful inside the cabinet. Also, while you were rummaging around for little Houdini, you weren’t putting pressure on the pipe, so that sink (patient) lost a whole lot of water (blood) that it didn’t need to. Can you imagine how much more it would have been if you’d hit the water intake pipe (artery) instead?
I know what you’re thinking. “But in movies—!!” And I know. But here’s the thing: Hollywood? It’s a bouquet of lies. I’m sorry. I really am.
In fact, even that distinctly bullet-shaped thing you usually see pulled out of people in movies may not always be true. Many times the bullet mushrooms out or becomes malformed. Depending on what that bullet ran into (like bone) it might have even broken into a dozen pieces. Try digging those out of your protagonist!
Now sometimes, but not always, doctors WILL remove the bullet (or fragments of bullet). For example, if they’ve already got the patient in surgery, and AFTER they’ve already repaired any veins, arteries, and organs to the best of their ability. Or if the patient doesn’t need surgery (if it didn’t hit anything major and is just lodged in the muscle or fat) but doctors notice that the bullet or fragment is likely to cause damage if left inside the patient.
More often than not, however, the bullet isn’t doing anything actively damaging while inside the patient, or the removal of the bullet would be more dangerous than leaving it where it is. This is why most bullets don’t get removed at all.
This is true if your characters are at a hospital, but ESPECIALLY if this is a field job. If trained physicians with all the tools at their disposal, blood transfusions, and a sterile environment most likely won’t take the bullet out, then Dave McSide-Character should DEFINITELY not be sticking his filthy, 5-straight-chapters-of-parkour fingers or his I-just-stabbed-a-guy-but-I-wiped-the-blood-off-on-my-pants knife inside the protagonist to fish around for some bullet that isn’t even causing harm. The recommended way to deal with a gunshot wound in the field? Pack it with gauze (or yes, even a filthy we’ve-been-on-the-run-for-two-weeks-in-the-same-clothes t-shirt if that’s all you have. Wound infection is a different post) and keep constant pressure on it.
Remember: stopping the leak in the sink is the most important thing. Not rummaging around in the cabinet for the bullet. Taking it out does literally nothing.
Two perfectly realistic reasons why you might have a character take the bullet out:
Now, sometimes, depending on the characters or the world you’re writing in, this might be different. In some instances, you might want to write the lead-scavenger-hunt scene in!
The first reason is if they just don’t know
And that’s really important when writing realistically. Not everyone is a professional in emergency wound care. Most people get all their knowledge of emergency medicine from Grey’s Anatomy and House M.D.
If your character has any medical training? Probably don’t do it
If your character has any military or police training? Some know, some don’t, so writing it either way is believable. It’s a toss-up, but they DO have more experience with gunshot wounds (either personally, witnessed, or in training videos and word of mouth)
If your character is a 17-year-old art student who saw blood for the very first time two chapters ago? Well now that character might just try digging for the bullet
And hey, maybe they’re like “I’m gonna get the bullet out!” but another character (the one who was shot, another character in the room, maybe even a 911 operator) steps in and says “No, no, no! Just put pressure on it!”
But regardless, injured characters in movies are always suddenly on the mend after the bullet is taken out. The vitals start to rise, they aren’t gasping for breath, their hand closes firmly around the love-interest’s hand, etc. And this doesn’t happen. Regardless of what your characterdoes, the rules of biology are still in play.
In the end, though, that bullet’s just minding its own business in there. The #1 priority is fixing the damage it caused on the way in.
The second reason is if the bullet is special
This is more for the SciFi/Fantasy writers.
If your character is a werewolf and was just shot by a silver bullet which is stopping their healing process and is slowly killing them? Yeah, take it out
If the bullet is actually some sort of tiny robot designed to burrow into their organs one by one? Yeah, take it out.
If the bullet had a spell or curse placed on it? Yeah, take it out.
If they need to get transported up to the med bay, but the bullet would cause some kind of issue with the transporters? Yeah, take it out.
But in all of these examples, the bullet has to be inherently dangerous. For normal humans with normal bullets, its just a hunk of lead.
Hope this helped some of you action writers out there!
Good luck and good writing!
Disclaimer: In the event that you or someone you know has been shot, the best thing to do for them is call for an ambulance and follow the instructions provided by the operator. This post is intended to give accurate writing advice to authors and script writers, but I am not a medical professional. While I do believe that the research that I’ve done on this topic is factually accurate, it should not be taken as actual medical advice.
Prompt:On a need to know basis (recovery, scars, aftermath) Fandom:Naruto Characters:Tenzo/Kakashi Rating: M (mention of graphic torture, injuries) Words:1298 (oops lol) Notes:Requested by @vibgyoroygbiv. This one is also late, but I’ve been sick. We’ll get caught up. This story references events from a much longer fic of mine called Find Me in the Dark if you want the background, but it isn’t necessary to understand this piece.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Kakashi encouraged, pushing the door to his apartment wider. Dust motes floated across his vision, and he wished he’d taken some time to clean before inviting Tenzo over, but there hadn’t been time. “Did you want to take a shower or something?”
Tenzo shook his head without speaking, moving toward the couch. He sank onto the cushions and fidgeted with his pants leg. “You don’t have to do this senpai. I’m okay to go home.”
Humming under his breath, Kakashi nodded. “You might be ready, but I’m not sure that I am.”
It had been less than two hours since Tenzo was released from the hospital where he’d stayed for two days. Tsunade said the man was physically well enough after his ordeal, but his mental state was another story. She didn’t quite suggest that Kakashi should stay with him, but the implication was there. He hadn’t needed it. Kakashi wasn’t going to let Tenzo out of his sight.
“Can I get you anything?” Kakashi asked, glancing toward the kitchen. “Something to eat? Water? A stiff drink?”
Tenzo sighed. “I don’t need or want anything. I’m fine.”
You’re not fine. You were just tortured. You lost so much blood that Sakura couldn’t heal you. You almost died in my arms. The panicked thoughts raced through Kakashi’s mind, but he nodded instead of acknowledging them. “Okay.”
The pair sat in silence for several minutes while Tenzo looked everywhere except Kakashi. Deciding to leave him in peace, Kakashi pulled Icha, Icha off the table and started leafing through the familiar book. None of the words sank in. Tenzo glanced over once, but Kakashi kept his eyes on the page. Minute dragged toward an hour without speaking, but he did nothing to break it. Tenzo visibly relaxed, shoulders lowering as his breath grew deeper. Still, Kakashi didn’t comment.
A scream shattered the silence, the sound more playful than terrified. Kakashi assumed it was some kids playing, or perhaps a jutsu gone wrong and the inherent teasing that came with that. He turned to ask Tenzo what he thought of it and was shocked to see the whites of the man’s eyes. He sat rigid, hands clenched on the edge of the cushion. Kakashi frowned. “What’s wrong?”
Tenzo shook his head without answering, sucking rapid breaths through his lips. Kakashi set his book aside and moved closer. “I can’t,” Tenzo gasped, eyes darting around the room. “I—”
The man clutched at his heavy flak vest, so Kakashi helped him shrug it off. A shrill breath whistled in Tenzo’s throat as he pushed down the fabric covering his neck. Kakashi raised one hand to the newly revealed skin and pressed. Tenzo’s too fast pulse pounded beneath his fingers. He shied away, eyes on the door like he expected it to crash open at any moment.
“Look at me,” Kakashi pleaded. Another loud crash, likely someone dropping something in the next door apartment, made Tenzo cry out.
On a whim, Kakashi caught Tenzo’s hand and led him deeper into the apartment. The bedroom was furthest away from the noise of the street, especially after Kakashi closed the door and windows. He returned to Tenzo’s side. “You’re safe here,” he whispered, voice growing thick on the words.
Nearly a week ago, Kakashi had no idea where Tenzo was or how badly his mission had gone, only that he needed to find him. He recalled the injuries and blood loss that he’s seen, then the crippling fear that he’d been too late. Promising that he was safe felt dishonest.
“I wish I could promise that nobody else will ever hurt you either,” Kakashi continued, taking another step toward Tenzo. The man raised haunted, questioning eyes. Kakashi brushed over the scar that curled over Tenzo’s cheek. He traced the path toward the man’s temple. “What happened here?”
Tenzo closed his eyes, but his head tipped toward Kakashi’s hand. He exhaled in a soft whoosh and shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I know.” Kakashi smoothed his thumb across the area a second time. “But, you need to.”
For a moment, Tenzo didn’t speak or move. The tension between them stretched and grew until Kakashi wondered if he’d made a mistake. Maybe Tenzo wanted to be alone, and the extra attention was making him uncomfortable. Maybe he didn’t want Kakashi around because he blamed him for not getting there soon enough. Maybe he wanted—
“It was from a shuriken when I was first captured,” Tenzo whispered, cringing at even the lightest touch.
Kakashi spied another scar along Tenzo’s jaw and allowed his slide along it until skin met fabric. He eased the half mask down and let it hang toward his chest. Tenzo blew out a breath as the pad of Kakashi’s thumb followed the scar toward his shoulder. He tried not to think about how close the slash had come to ending his life. The opposite shoulder rose in a shrug. “A kunai.”
Though Kakashi had seen the damage first hand, there had been too much blood to catalogue the injuries. With a questioning sound he reached for the hem of Tenzo’s shirt. When the younger man didn’t stop him, he raised it. It took considerable control not to gasp at the roadmap of torture written across the pale skin. Kakashi laid the garment aside and sucked in a breath that provided too little air.
Kakashi smoothed a palm over the man’s right side, surprised the man shifted away from the touch. Pale scars ran along Tenzo’s ribs with a deep, puckered scar between two of them, large enough for Kakashi’s knuckle to sink into. He caressed the abused skin, but Tenzo showed no emotion when he answered. “Kabuto punctured my lung, mostly to see if it would reinflate on its own.”
As Kakashi drew back, his hand shook from either rage or sorrow. He didn’t try to figure out which. The skin over Tenzo’s heart was marred with an intricate pattern of scars. When Kakashi’s palm covered the area, Tenzo blew out a breath. “Those were done with a chakra scalpel.”
“Hot metal of some sort, meant to test my body’s ability to heal around cauterization,” Tenzo supplied, indicating a long, dark scar on the side of his stomach. “I passed out before Kabuto could finish the explanation.”
“Flayed,” Tenzo continued in the same monotonous tone, offering his left wrist with an irregular pattern encircling it. He raised his hand to display the missing joint on his left index finger. “I can’t remember what he used for this, only that it hurt like hell. What’s the point of this?”
Shame and guilt threatened to overwhelm Kakashi as he caught Tenzo’s hand. He turned the man’s wrist over and pressed a light kiss to the blemished skin. Tenzo’s breath caught at the movement. “I am so sorry,” Kakashi murmured, accenting each word with a gentle caress. He ended with his lips against a mark behind Tenzo’s ear that he still didn’t know the cause of. “I should have been there.”
Tenzo shuddered, crumbling in an instant. A sob caught in his throat, tangling in his vocal cords without fully forming. Kakashi pulled him closer, slanting their mouths together as if he could capture the pain and erase it. Tenzo clutched his back, fingers digging in painfully. When they broke apart, Tenzo shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“I almost lost you,” Kakashi breathed, trying to control the emotion that crept into his voice. “I let you go, and I didn’t say all the things—”
Tenzo absorbed the confession in a feather light kiss that stole the remainder of Kakashi’s words. He wiped at his eyes and offered a fragile smile, squeezing Kakashi’s hand. “You found me, that’s what matters.”
For an example of the red flags flapping for the NFL, look no further than the abrupt decision by Andrew Luck, the ailing star quarterback for the Indianapolis Colts, to retire before his 30th birthday. Our view.Opposing view.
Summary: When Loki gets injured in the field, you discover that there’s more to him than the laughing, mischievous facade he wears. And he lets you care for him.
Warnings/Notes: There’s slight damage to one of Loki’s eyes in this one. If that freaks you out too much to be able to read it, I understand, but I promise I don’t focus on the trauma or the damage itself. I just wanted an excuse for Loki to need to apply eye drops. (Also! Tomorrow’s lullaby will be the last one for a few weeks but don’t forget that I would love to receive SO MANY requests for headcanons so I can stay in the habit of writing at least a little bit every day!)
Steadier Hands
For as strong as he was, and as brave, and as doggedly determined to do whatever he set his mind to, you were starting to realize that Loki was also kind of a baby. Oh, he hid it well. Normally he went through the day, through whole missions, never once allowing even a fraction of weakness to show through. He was stoic. Fierce. Incredibly capable and even admirable.
And then he took some shrapnel to the eye in the field and a doctor gave him some eye-drops to help things heal.
Summary: Loki never gave a damn about getting stitched back together after getting torn apart on missions, but there’s something about the way you do it…
Warnings/Notes: Whoops! Sorry this is so late. I, uh… may have gotten sucked into the world of Minecraft.
New but Retroactive Reminder for this and all of my fics: I do not, have not, and will not give anyone permission to copy/paste, translate, or otherwise take or modify this story to post it anywhere else. You can find my stories here on Tumblr or under kaeorin on AO3, but nowhere else. This does not apply only to fics which hold this disclaimer–NONE of my works are to be stolen or modified. Additionally, please remember that Liking a post on Tumblr does not increase the author’s exposure. I don’t run your life, but readers should be reblogging the works they like.
Never Fret None
Ordinarily, Loki was not much for wound care. He healed so quickly, after all, that the worst he usually needed to do was think about wiping away some of the grime to make it easier for his skin to knit back together. Even when he was badly hurt, he knew that, as long as he could lie down and sleep through the night, if he woke up in the morning, all would be well again. Fighting beside the Avengers meant that he rarely faced down the kinds of foes that he’d once survived. Mortals could not tear him apart. Even the enhanced mortals, or the types of enemies they tended to drag in from outer space, could not cause any truly lasting damage. So, when even the super-soldiers found themselves limping towards the infirmary after returning from an especially-disastrous mission, Loki did not bother. He could wash himself at the sink, or in the shower, and collapse into bed while his body did the rest of the work.
But you didn’t like that.
You. You sweet thing, you precious fool who’d gone and gotten yourself involved with Loki of Asgard. You worked with the Avengers, though—thankfully—you seldom went out on the kinds of missions that made Rogers bleed. Once he’d accepted his place in the Tower—or at least accepted that there was no way he was going to escape this place—it hadn’t taken very long at all for you to catch his interest.
You were mortal, like everybody else, but you wore it differently. There was something in your eyes, in your face, in your posture, that had always intrigued him. You did not carry yourself the way so many other mortals did: blundering about from moment to moment, completely oblivious to what else existed beyond their comprehension. You seemed to understand more than you’d ever say aloud. Strangest of all: when Loki’s curiosity became too much for him and made him corner you in one of the many labs in the Tower, you did not look at him with even a trace of fear in your eyes.
Tonight, he felt a familiar surge in his chest. Irritation, mostly, but also tender love. He’d been wounded on this latest mission. It wasn’t bad enough to cause any lasting damage, but it was certainly bad enough to be visible. It’d catch your attention, and it’d make you worry.
He hated when he made you worry.
Sure enough: As soon as you caught sight of him, he watched your face light up with a brilliant smile—only to fall with concern and fear when he moved close enough to let you see his uniform. You rushed to his side and reached out to touch him. Your hands fluttered in the air around his torso for a few moments, looking very much like butterflies trying to determine where they could land. It was too much for him: he grasped your wrists in his own filthy hands and forced you to press your touch against him.
“I’m fine,” he said in a low voice. Often, that tone of voice was enough to soothe your fears. There had been countless nights already, where he’d pulled you out of nightmares and coaxed you back to sleep. His fingers in your hair and his voice low in his chest, they worked like magic on you. Those nights, he couldn’t help but lie awake and marvel at that: at the way you allowed a monster to hold you in the depths of your fear and the way you could let him convince you to ignore whatever it was that was frightening you. Tonight, he watched the lines in your forehead lessen—but not disappear entirely. “I mean it. Stop looking at me like that. I’m alright.”
“You’re bleeding.” You did not pull your hands away from him, not even when he released your wrists to cup your face in his hands. You allowed him to tilt your head up a bit, guiding your eyes back to his face. When he caught your gaze, he smiled despite himself. You looked so serious. It was precious to him.
“Barely. I’m already mostly healed just from the flight back here. I just need a few hours, and I’ll be perfect once more. Stop worrying; you’ll make yourself sick.”
It was easy to want to look after you, far easier than he’d ever thought possible. Maybe it was related to whatever had made you so glaringly different from the rest of the mortals, but you were the first person in a long time that Loki had felt the desire to protect. Maybe that was why he was so irritated by your concern during times like these: You shouldn’t have had to worry like that, and especially not over someone like him.
Perhaps he’d lost a little more blood than he’d initially realized, because for a moment he truly thought that you might allow him to make you stop worrying. But then those lines in your forehead deepened again, and he watched the way you set your jaw with determination. You slipped your arm around his waist and tugged him towards the elevators.
As soon as the door had closed behind him in his room, you set to tugging his clothing off of him. Your touch was cool, almost professional, but that didn’t stop him from cracking jokes.
“Darling, if I’d known that that was all you wanted, I would never have made you wait so long. All you had to do was ask.” He reached to take hold of one of your hands, but you evaded his touch with a carefully-practiced ease. He didn’t have to look down at himself to know what he looked like; the despair in your eyes as you took in the sight of him was enough.
He was wounded. He knew that damn well. There had been too many foes, and they’d fought too fiercely. His chest and sides were littered with bruises, scrapes, and more gaping wounds than he would have liked. Briefly, he took the time to wish he’d lingered on the jet just a little bit longer, in the hopes that those wounds might have closed up a little more before you could spot them. Your touch grew light again as you drew your fingertips down his chest. When you traced one particularly-nasty cut trailing from his breastbone to his navel, he couldn’t stop the shiver that rippled through him. That one had healed up quite a bit on the flight home, but, before it did, it’d been pouring blood like a waterfall.
This time, when he reached to take your hand, you let him. He pressed your touch a little more firmly against his skin and held his hand against the back of yours to keep it still. “I’m alright,” he promised once again, holding your gaze. He’d come back to you, as he always had and always would. He didn’t say that last part aloud.
You nodded slightly and set your lips in a thin line before gesturing towards his washroom with your chin. “Let’s get you clean,” you said in a voice that held a few too many ghosts for Loki’s liking, but it could have been worse. He bit back his attempt at a crass joke and followed you silently instead.
The water felt nice enough. You’d gotten the water to the perfect temperature and helped him under the spray before stripping down yourself so you could join him. The water—warm, but not boiling—eased the worst of the aches in his muscles even as it stung the exposed flesh of the cuts.
By now, Loki had taken many showers with you. You’d washed his hair more times than he could have counted. Secretly, he loved the way he had to duck his head down a bit for you, and of course he loved the feeling of your fingers through his hair. He fell silent as you worked. It might have been fun to rile you up with things that would make you want to hide your face—or scowl up at him directly—but he also didn’t want to ruin this. You washed the suds from his hair, careful as ever to keep it from stinging his eyes, and when you’d finished looking after his hair, you picked up the soap.
If he pushed, he might have been able to convince you to let him look after you as well. You also seemed to like it when he washed your hair for you. Your hair did require a bit more upkeep than his did, and it was always a whole production when you washed your hair, but it was more than worth it to see the quiet bliss settle in on your features. But perhaps tonight was not the best night. His wounds seemed to bother you more tonight than they had in the past: perhaps, tonight, it would be kind of him merely to allow you to do what you felt you needed to do for him, and worry about repaying you later.
So he stood there under the spray as you looked after him. Your gentle hands, they washed the dirt and blood and filth off of him. He was pleased to see that most of his wounds, even the deepest ones, had stopped oozing blood. You had to have noticed the same thing: he caught the way you trailed your fingers along one. As it so often was, your touch was heart-breakingly tender. There was so much love in you, you perfect thing, and it never occurred to you not to give it all to him. That was yet another thing which made him need to protect you. You could defend yourself, but he wanted to be the one to do it so you could go on loving the way you did. Here and there, when you weren’t actively washing him, you permitted him to bring your hand up to his lips to kiss your knuckles. When he did, you looked up at him. Slowly, you began to smile again.
Once the two of you had dried off, you led him to the bed and dragged out your first aid kit. The shower itself had gone a long way towards healing his wounds. The simple act of cleaning away all the foreign material made it easier for his skin to heal back together. Of course, he knew you’d never allow him to go to sleep without this ritual. You brought out antiseptics and gauze and bandages, and cared for him with a solemn, thoughtful look on your face. He did not interrupt you, not even when the crease in your brow called out to him, begged him to soothe it away with his lips.
He’d never get over it. When you took care of him like this, it always seemed to hurt so much less than when others did it—or even than when he did it himself. Was it the love in your touch which lessened the sting? Was it some quiet, hidden magic that only you possessed? Whatever it was, it made it so much easier to sit still while you cleaned and dressed his wounds.
Those moments were also some of the only moments where Loki didn’t have to fight to hold his tongue. When you were working on him like that, and when he was watching you, it was like his brain fell still. For once, thoughts and images and memories did not wash over him in an endless deluge of information. Words did not press at the tip of his tongue, did not fight to spill past his lips. Your touch, and your concern, and your presence made it possible for him to exist. He could sit quietly in his own skin, certain in the knowledge that you were right there with him. Did you know what you did to him? Could he ever find the words to tell you?
When, all too soon, you packed your supplies away again and offered him one of his sleep-shirts, rather than taking it, he reached out to crush you against his body. You made a quiet sound: a startled sort of squeak that made him smile even as he pressed his nose against the top of your head. This was why he continued to do what he did, out there in the world. Out there on the Avengers jet. He did it because it meant he’d be able to come back here, to you, and touch you and hold you.
It was hard to know exactly how long the two of you stood there, wrapped up in one another with the rest of the world having fallen away. He could feel the muscles in your arms trembling from how tightly you were holding him. Even that did not make you let go.
After some time, Loki pulled away from you—just enough—and nodded towards the bed. It was late. He knew that worrying tended to wear you out, so he wasn’t overly surprised when you just nodded back at him and climbed under the covers. The sight of you in his bed was something he’d never get used to, and never get tired of. He allowed himself a few moments just to stand there and watch you make yourself comfortable among the sheets that smelled of him. By the time you looked up at him with heavy lashes, it didn’t take much to get him to join you.
Careful not to aggravate any of his wounds, you curled yourself around him as soon as Loki joined you under the covers. The softness of that, and the wordless thoughtfulness of that, made his chest feel tight. You did not make a show of your love, it was merely a part of who you were. Had he ever known anyone like you?
You rested your head on his shoulder, tucked carefully beneath his jawline, and he couldn’t help but turn his head to press his lips to your forehead: a dozen or more tiny, choked-up kisses because he couldn’t figure out how else to say what he needed to tell you.
You understood. He could tell that you understood from the contented sigh that you let out against his throat. And from the way you tightened your arm (as carefully as ever) around his middle.
He slept. During the night, his skin and body healed just as he’d expected—but his mind was also beginning to heal. Thanks to you.
